Local Live & Album Reviews

[May 17th, 2006]

^Blotter

NEW VIVA VOCE, KOJI'S STOPS JAZZ AND MORE.

Joy unbounded! Viva Voce , the duo of Kevin and Anita Robinson that is able to both rock Blotter's ass off and make him think marriage could be a harmonious venture, has details on its new album. It will be called Get Yr Blood Sucked Out (scary!) and will be released by Barsuk Records on Sept. 12, some time after the release of the album's first single "From the Devil Himself." On Aug. 14, Euro fans can get their hands on the album, which will be "a markedly dark and sultry record epic in scope" (orgasm!). Stay tuned for more details. >> Portland's jazz world will be getting a little smaller at the end of June, when Koji's on Barbur will suspend its live jazz programming. But fret not, fedora-sporting fellow, a new downtown Koji's venue is in the works for late 2006, early 2007. >> NoPo's Portsmouth Club closed last week, which means there's one fewer hip-hop venue in town, bringing the grand total to -4. The club will reopen under a new owner, Chris Penner, as a neighborhood bar featuring jazz and blues artists. >> The PDX Pop Now! website has been taking requests for bands to play the free all-local festival (July 28-30) for a week and has already amassed 900 band names. Some bands are playing dirty politics by offering prizes for people to request them, including T-shirts, CDs and, in the case of the Wires , a pony. Go to www.pdxpopnow.com to check out the list.

Sate our thirst for Portland music news. Email localcut@wweek.com.

^MIDNIGHT SERENADERS THURSDAY, MAY 18

It's love at first set with this newfangled, old-fashioned ensemble.

[ROOTS] For the past five Thursday evenings, over slices, salad and pints at homey, all-ages Mississippi Pizza, a swell new band has been quietly building a following. This past week, the restaurant's big music room filled up early with a charmingly multigenerational crowd, from toddlers to retirees, abuzz—a gentle, entry-level kind of buzz—about the Midnight Serenaders, a delightful addition to Portland's thriving roots-music landscape.

They're a supergroup of a strange sort: Leader Doug Sammons is known from his days with beloved bluegrass combo Sam Hill, bassist Laura Quigley is a member of the equally esteemed Misty River, and—here's the wild card—Portland-raised guitarist Henry Bogdan played bass for '90s alt-heavies Helmet before falling hopelessly in love with Hawaiian steel guitar. They're joined by accomplished bluegrass banjo player Mike Stahlman, here revisiting the tenor banjo he first played as a child, as well as jazz-klezmer clarinetist Sammy Epstein (of the Mazel Tov Orchestra) and trumpeter Dean Comley.

Visually, at least, this sextet divides handily onstage into three pairings: Up front and to the audience's left, Sammons and Quigley stand, play and sing; to the right, seated, Bogdan and Stahlman hunch over their instruments; and perched on stools on the back line, Epstein and Comley wiggle around or pull faces when not busy playing. The band is turned out in spiffy vintage style, befitting their grab bag of vintage tunes from jazz, country and blues to Tin Pan Alley pop, with the occasional Hawaiian instrumental.

To date, the Serenaders have performed fewer than 20 shows together, and Comley's still a recent addition to the lineup. So, beyond simply building word of mouth, the two-sets-a-night, six-week Mississippi Pizza residency ending this week has helped them tighten up and begin to stretch out. Bogdan attests that "having to play every song we know, once a week" has been a boon for the group. "It takes a long time to get a band off the ground," he continues, knowingly. "Once everyone has their confidence, when you're not worrying about what note comes next, then you can really start playing."

—JEFF ROSENBERG.

The Midnight Serenaders play at Mississippi Pizza. 6 pm. Free. All ages.

^Cool Nutz's Birthday Party May 11, at Berbati's Pan

The birthday boy is reborn, and other observations.

[RAP] It's 10 pm and DJ O.G. One is spinning old-school R&B, squinting a bit while he looks over the dance floor to see if anyone has shown up yet.

On the other side of the club, DJ Chill, who has just shown up, cuts to the front of the line at the bar. He's sporting a white cowboy hat and a wad of cash in his hand. He whispers something to the bartender. "I know who you are," she says, and serves him without hesitation.

The dance floor starts to fill, while Cool Nutz, whose birthday is being celebrated tonight, stands offstage with a microphone, trying to keep some sort of anonymity while he announces the next act. "It's Cool Nutz's birthday," he says in the third person. DJ Chill, who is now manning the tables, points him out, and they both shrug like actors in a Mentos commercial.

The show kicks off with some uncomfortably smooth R&B from Chris Ray and Arjay. Most of the men head next door or get in line for the bar, while the couples on the dance floor intertwine limbs and grab each other's asses. It's gut-wrenching to watch R&B when you're by yourself.

When Cool Nutz, Maniac Loc and Bosko take the stage, the place starts to fill. "I love all y'all motherfuckers," Nutz says. "I hope you love me, too." The night started so late and is so packed with performers that each set is only two songs. "I rock hard like Metallica," Nutz's second track begins, but he's rocking more like Fugazi—his heart is somewhere in the crowd, and the beats knock his words down one by one, like dominoes. Before tonight there had been a trace of fussiness in Cool Nutz's performances, like he's worried about the soundman, the next act or the complacency of the crowd. But tonight that all disappears. Maybe it's the birthday, or all the love, or the newness of the material, but he sounds re-energized and raw as fuck.

The portion of the crowd that hasn't hooked up, gotten sick or otherwise left hangs out to hear solid, compact sets from Chef Boy R Bangerz, Seattle's Boom Bap Project and Siren's Echo, among others. As at any good party, it's the hardcore who hang on until the bitter end, and they are rewarded with Bosko, who throws some hooks that sound straight out of the Jackson 5 songbook. Bosko sounds slicker every time I hear him, and he's at the top of his game tonight, slipping in and out of falsetto, throwing in happy birthdays here and there, and staggering his gaze between female fans. I slide to the back and become invisible for a moment, then nod to the doorman on my way out.

—CASEY JARMAN.

^Best New Band Showcase May 12 at Berbati's Pan

For one night, the skeptical, the old and the hip come together to celebrate.

[SMORGASBORD] Early on Friday night at Berbati's Pan, three seemingly drunk college chicks in pastel tank tops and jeans skanked while DJ Beyonda worked the turntables. This sight is made even stranger by the fact that Beyonda isn't spinning ska, but gangsta rap. For the crowd filing into Berbati's, this was the perfect introduction to WW's Best New Band Showcase. With a lineup consisting of the dark disco metal group Swan Island, the acoustic folkster Tractor Operator, and the one-man electronic dance party Copy, the overall feel of the night was incongruous—and so was the crowd.

Surely the tattooed chicks in all black will dig Swan Island, but what about the preppy, flip-flop-wearing dudes with Budweisers? How will they react? What about the guys in the pool room who look like they just came from Headbangers Ball? Will they scoff at the humbling, soft tunes of Tractor Operator?

As the five ladies who make up Swan Island took the stage, the crowd immediately fell silent. With the exception of singer Brisa Gonzalez, the rest of the band stood still, stoic, their cropped haircuts and ties communicating a complicated androgyny. Gonzalez, though, was different, filled with a raging sultry femininity. The heavy-metal drum kicked in, and the crowd cheered while Gonzalez commanded the stage, dancing around like a gypsy. After each song, the crowd exploded in approval. Goths and jocks alike, they were sold.

Next was time for a kindergarten singalong with Tractor Operator. Except, instead of 5-year-olds, it was 30-somethings who had crawled up onto the stage to sit cross-legged behind T.O.'s Eric Jensen. And instead of "E-I-E-I-O," he sang songs about deadbeat dads and drug dealers and closed with the tender, memorable ballad "Close the Door."

Then Marius Libman, the man behind Copy, took the stage in a brown vintage suit with black chest hair poking out, holding a keytar. The Nintendo-esque twangs from the speakers had, by the third song, transformed the entirety of the audience into dancing robots. A 60-something bald man with glasses was getting his groove on like somebody spiked his drink. People didn't walk to the bathroom, they danced to it. And by halfway through the set, the stage was filled with dancing revelers. This nonstop electronic love fest continued for about an hour, until Copy finally unplugged his laptop and waved goodbye. "Play, play, play!" the crowd chanted. Copy returned for one final song. The audience rejoiced, and for one moment, hipsters, frat boys and drunk old ladies came together, not as separate social parties, but as one unified being: a bunch of dancing fools.

—DEVAN COOK.